Light in the Window
by Wrong Name Tag
Summary: Teddy Lupin is rereading his father's journal. It's a way to escape life and feel like-well, like he was there, all along, as his father went through school and more.
1. Chapter 1

_There is no waking up to reality. There is only the brutal feeling_

_of dirty concrete pushing against palms and the overwhelming_

_brightness of so much light. There is only the tickle_

_in the spirit reminding you that colors exist_

_again. There is only the memory that one last, deep breath_

_needs to be taken so that you can cherish the feeling_

_of light on flesh. Because it never stays._

_July 25th, 2018_

I think Granny knows I still carry it everywhere. If it wasn't in my school bag, it was in my robes, and now if it's not in my robes, it's in my briefcase. Well, his briefcase. That's where I found it, sometime ten years ago, right before Hogwarts.

The pages used to be crisp, the binding thick and unbroken. The pages almost still stuck flat against each other, and when I opened my father's journal the first time... It smelled. Like—

It's stupid, I know. Victoire said so, just a few weeks ago, in the middle of the living room at the Burrow, with everyone sitting around and laughing and remembering things none of "the kids" were alive for.

"Love, we can't just yet."

"And why not?" She sniffed, sat up straighter so that her long hair fell to curves around her waist.

"It's not…" I breathed in, let it out. "I just don't have—"

"Well, maybe we could if you took the time away from fiddling with your diary," Voictoire hissed and, I swear, the room got silent. Ron shifted in his seat and looked away, cleared his throat until they all started laughing and eating the cakes Mrs. Weasley kept sending around the room.

And that was it. Except for Harry, watching me in a corner.

Merlin, he knows everything, though that doesn't mean I have to tell him everything.

So I got up, shut the door, and walked until I calmed down enough to apparate. I wasn't family or anything. I didn't have to say what was on my mind, what had been on my mind since the day at work that they started letting something on. The same day that I reread the very last entry in his journal, written days before he died. Written days after I began living.

And, together... Let's just say that the perfect world we were left to live in... isn't quite so perfect.

I don't know what to think anymore, and this is stupid.

Goodnight.

_-ted_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! ^_^ I appreciate it, and any feedback is always appreciated. And I hope I don't disappoint you that it's not actually Remus' journal! My idea is it's flashbacks, but the ones that Remus would talk about in his journal and Teddy would read (and probably not always be interested in.) So, enjoy! I have a few chapters written already that I'll continue to post up, and then I'm going to be catching up with writing.

_**August 9, 1976, 6:30am**_

People are so consumed with smells that they don't think about anything else. Upon wakening, people talk of what they smelled and heard, and then what they saw, as if sight is a dismissive afterthought. It develops late, it should be noticed late. But when Remus Lupin opens his eyes in the morning, he thinks of what he sees.

He opens his eyes, but be clear: Remus does not wake up. He has been awake all night, for a rough night that lasted longer than eight hours, and has to process the world through his new eyes. Or, no. Not his new eyes. His eyes. The good ones. The ones that see color.

When there is any color worth watching.

Remus rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. It's all grey and light, the color of concrete and sunrise. Rays throw more shadows across the room than the moon did; maybe sight isn't everything when there's nothing to see.

The light doesn't touch the floor but the cement basement hasn't changed since the night before, when his mother opened the cellar door wide and magicked him down to the ground hours before the sun slammed into the horizon.

He figures he has another hour to wait. His mother never opens the door too soon, but often too late. One month, years ago, Remus tried to bring old copies of the prophet and his favorite book of Charms to have something to look at other than watch the sunlight throw the bloodstains on the walls into dancing figures during the hours after sunrise. The morning after, Remus awoke to bloodstains on the shredded pieces of paper, all puddled around his head.

Remus sighs and rubs his hands along his calves before standing up. The light is rising higher through the window and not for the first time, Remus realizes how simple life must have been when it was dictated by night and day, not hours and minutes and seconds.

He's the only one he knows who Night rules and Day smiles upon. The only person who, every month, every day, the sun rising over a hill is a lopsided grin beckoning him to step once, twice, three times outside of his skin until Remus smiles back. And then night falls, the moon pushing him one, two, three, four steps backward, sometimes until he hits the concrete of a basement floor.

Even Remus' now-deadened senses hear the sound of the padlock on the cellar door opening and the weak groan of doors thrown back. Remus looks into the glare of light. Soon, the sunlight filtering through a large Willow in the backyard is blocked and Remus' mother, Rachel Lupin, stands 15 feet above him in the air, blue robes stick-straight in the early morning heat and an extra pair folded into the crook of her arm.

"Remus, dear?" she calls down, and she looks like sunrise peeking over a white-capped mountain, like a rainbow crawling through the clouds. Her sandy hair curls around her chin, her cheekbones high and painted blush even in the morning. "Here are your clothes."

"Morning, mum," Remus says. He stands and picks the robes she drops down a few feet in front of him up off the floor. He eases the sleeves up his torn arms and gently shrugs his shoulders into the fabric. But, as always, his mother thought of him: She brought silk robes. They would be excessive except that silk didn't catch in the tears on his skin.

"Ready?" she asks, but she's already waving her wand in the air in front of her, lifting him from inside the cellar cell and onto solid ground. "Morning, love," she says and leans forward to kiss his cheek.

Inwardly, he recoils at the touch, but mothers will always be mothers who, despite their sons, will close their cells for one month more, grab their hands gently between the scars, and lead them up to the house for breakfast.

But his mother skates easily around the subject, asking in her honey-sweetened tones, "What are you doing today? We could go see a Muggle show."

He knows her; she is carefully avoiding the obvious, the historical knowledge that for at least two more days, Remus will spend his time in oversized robes with salves and bandages on the bad cuts. He will wander around the neighborhood—deserted, mind, because no one wants to live in the row of houses next to the eerie howl that echoes into a pack of wolves bounding through living room walls—and read books, and learn to cook and care for himself.

And avoid his father, Augustus.

"Nothing, Mum." Remus reluctantly lets her hold his hand as they walk from the cellar to the back door of the house. "Might get a new book. I'll take you to a show, though, if you'd like."

His mother smiles. She looks at him and shakes her head and reaches out for the nickel handle of the back door to the house. "You're a sweet boy, Remus," she says, and shakes her head once more before entering into the house. "You should send an owl to those mates of yours."

The Marauders. She doesn't know their nicknames, their adventures, their dangers, their secrets. But the memories make Remus smile. "I have. I'm going to James' next week."

Remus sits in a chair at the dining room table; Augustus, no doubt, is still sleeping after a hard night suckling a bottle of rum, or maybe a cask of brandy.

"You're going to James'?" his mother asks, magicking pots and pans over the stove and throwing ingredients in. A knife chopped onions and peppers on a cutting board next to her. "For how long?"

Remus shrugs, notices the slouch in his mother's shoulders as they drag inward, curving over in protection. "Probably until the semester starts."

"But, Remus, do you really think that's—"

"Mum, I'll be alright."

"But I don't want someone else—"

Remus shrugs, sighs, and lifts up from his chair at the kitchen table. He refuses to meet his mother's eyes, as he says, "People don't catch it if I sleep on their sheets or eat with their silverware."

"Remus, darling, that's not what I—"

He nods to the cabinet in the corner of the kitchen, where _Remus' favorite things_ are kept. Favorite things like plates, forks, knives, cups…. "I don't bite, I promise."

Remus meets his mother's eyes once and sees the ice blue in them melting into tears at the corners. But he looks away again and makes his way upstairs to his room.


End file.
